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axe stroke on the wood. He hurried across tne yard, and
mounted his horse. The woman was standing in the doorway
of the house. He averted his eyes from her, and she said
nothing. As he wheeled his horse, he caught, out of the tail
of his eye, the flash of sun on the swift arc of the descending
axe.

He rode down the short, brush-bordered lane leading to the
big road. On the right-hand side was a field of tobacco. It
was Trevelyan's tobacco. The stalks were spindly and droop-
ing, and the leaves, dry-looking, hung from the stalks. They
did not loop strongly away from the base, but sagged as though
their fibres had long lost strength and resilience. Between the
tobacco hills, even on the hills, the ground was dry, packed,
cracked-looking. It had a greyish cast.

"Crawfish ground," Mr. Munn said aloud; "crawfish
ground."

Looking at that field, the miserable, drouth-bitten plants
and the badly cultivated earth, and the blaze of sunlight over
it, he felt a surge of hatred, or of something near hatred, for
Trevelyan. He had not had such a feeling earlier.

He rode on, to the pike. He passed the spot where the
cedar grove and the buckberry bushes were. He knew, even
as he fought against the knowledge, the remembrance, that
he had ridden toward Trevelyan's house with the full inten-
tion of asking him if he had killed Duffy. He had been
going to say, " Trevelyan, you killed that man. Answer me."
He had not said it. He had said something else. He had
been afraid. But not of Trevelyan.

Except for the temperature—and even the night tonight
was coolish, too, for it was getting on in August—it might
have been that other night when he had ridden out this
road, with the two deputies, almost a year ago now. It is the
same road, he thought, and I am the same man and I am
doing the same thing, but it is a different time and it is a
different thing, or is it a different thing, only a different time?
—for then I rode here to find the knife and my riding here